


Your Grand Gift for Silence

by PippaTook



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Recreational Drug Use, Torture, Villain Mary, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-07 12:22:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PippaTook/pseuds/PippaTook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the only way to make things better for Sherlock Holmes is to say nothing at all.  And John Watson does have a grand gift for silence.<br/>Sherlock's breaking, and John knows it.  But it seems there are bigger things at stake now than a sociopath's heart, and there's no time for caring.  It's a disadvantage, anyway.  Right?</p><p>Okay, so the title's a manipulated ACD quote.  Set some time after The Sign of Three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, my dears. I know I haven't written anything in a while, but I hope you like this. I think it's safe to say I've been in a slump. I actually lost quite a lot of ficlets and planning, so that really put me off. But I'm back and I'm writing! Please enjoy nwn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _His brain is short circuiting and he's dying in Serbia and the Czech Republic and Hungary and Russia and everywhere in between. Then he throws the phone behind him and he hears it clatter against the cement. He hears John speaking to him._ 'You shouldn't have survived at all.'  _He promises not to this time. In a second, he's falling forward and the ground flies up towards his face and_
> 
> Sherlock jolts awake.

_He's running. There are trees and bushes, sticks breaking like glass under his feet. The helicopter isn't far off. They aren't far away. He knows he has to be caught but fear is still jolting through him as he sees them hiding, stalking, preparing to pounce. He slows, panting, bites his lip. They close in. Next thing he knows he's chained to the walls and the man has a pole and he knows the whole place is closely guarded but no one will comment on what's happening in that small room. No one ever does. He can't help it, groaning in pain as every inch of him is screaming_ 'why are you letting this happen?'  _And he can hear_ him _. Loose comments. Quieter than everything else, but still the loudest thing in the room. Louder than the man's demands, louder than the sound of his beatings, louder than his brother's betrayal as he sits inches away, smirking._ 'Smart arse.' _Nothing solid._ 'No one cares, Sherlock.'  _Little, insignificant comments._ 'Don't come back.'

John Watson is awake. He's lying in bed and the moon is slipping through the gap in the curtains so it shines right on his face. But the bed beside him is cold and she's… not there. He sits up quickly, looking around the room. The bathroom light isn't on. She's most certainly not there. "Mary?" he calls, brow creasing in worry. "Mary?" He scans her side of the bed for some sign, picks up her pillow and… there's a note. A note with her curly handwriting, the J of his name loops under the rest of it, like it usually does. He unfolds the paper.  _Your last vow_.

 _One of the main bases is in the Czech Republic. It's heavily guarded and pretty much everyone who so much as knows what's inside the old, abandoned looking building on the edge of the city either has a gun or is at the end of one. There's a girl. She looks older than she is. She has messy red curls and green eyes and no home, and Sherlock thinks at least a trace of a homeless network abroad will be infinitely useful. She proves to be. She gets inside the building and Sherlock is standing where he should, watching for her signal. They'll destroy it from the inside, out. He's waiting for her at the time they arranged, a full two days after she went in. It'd take that long. But it's never just Sherlock, even when he's alone._ 'You let her go in alone?'  _He mumbles something, waving the comment away._ 'You really don't care, do you?'  _He almost draws blood, biting his lip so hard._ 'Oh, yeah, psychopath - I can see it now.'  _He's about to yell - anything if he would just shut up but the door at the bottom of the building that leads into a fenced off patch where countless bodies are disposed of opens. And two guards come out, pulling a girl behind them by her messy red curls. Her body is bare and bruised and she's been beaten and molested and tortured but before he can even finish reading what he can see, the fourteen-year-old girl is shot in the head. And Sherlock will never know why she didn't just tell them everything and die painlessly._

 _Your last vow._ Mary's gone, and she's left a note saying ' _Your last vow'_. What the hell does it mean and why is she gone and, oh God, nothing ever makes sense anymore. Maybe Sherlock will know what to do. He always knows. Yes, there's something wrong in that genius brain of his, but he's still a genius. He always will be. He knows everything. So John vaguely feels for the phone on the bedside table and picks it up, sleep still clinging to his panicked mind as he calls Sherlock. It's three in the morning. There's no answer.

 _He's sitting in a corner of some dead-end road, eyes closed, flicking through everything he's done, needs to do. There are countless times he nearly died and each has a place in his mind where he did. They keep popping up, wanting to be heard. John keeps reminding him._ 'Why did you survive that?'  _He's ignoring the rain that's getting harder and harder and just tries to remember what he's meant to be doing next. Budapest is relatively void of activity, but, like any spider web, a lot of the supporting strands are invisible until you look at them in the right light. It's evening and there's nothing to do just yet. It's proving difficult to work out what to do at all when his blood is devoid of poison and John keeps telling him things he already knows but doesn't want to hear._ 'You can't work out what to do? You're pretty thick, for a genius.'  _Somehow he doesn't pay attention to the people walking up the road until he's pulled out from where he's sitting. And he's lying on the gravel and there are feet and fists and he can taste blood but he's quite content with slipping into unconsciousness._

John's sitting up properly now. He's calling Sherlock for the fourth time. There's still no answer. He pulls himself out of bed, the note lying on Mary's pillow. The room is dark and cold and he stumbles over nothing as he walks to his wardrobe. Any clothes will do. It's October and the night is cold and it's raining but he needs to get out, needs to find out what it means. If it was meant for the morning, he wouldn't have woken up. It's not logical and he knows that, but he has to know what the hell's going on right now but Sherlock isn't answering. He grabs the note and leaves the house.

 _It was easy enough to sneak onto the ship. Sherlock doesn't waste brain-power on working out what's being stored in the dark. He just needs to work out what he's going to do when they reach Murmansk. It's going to be a long journey and Sherlock knows he'll need something to occupy his mind until then._ 'Sally said - psychopaths get bored.'  _He doesn't mean to say shut up out loud but he does and someone's coming down the stairs into the hold as he does so and it's only a matter of time before he's found. The ship isn't exactly entirely legal. He's dragged up onto the deck by his hair. The cold sunlight hits him as hard as the sea wind and it's not long before any natural pain is replaced by the crew's idea of fun. He's beaten until his back is raw and the man swinging the cat o' nine tales gets tired. Sherlock doesn't have long to recover until he's dragged into reality again and is being pulled to his feet. He suddenly has a new and scruffy t-shirt and a mop in his hand and a gruff voice is telling him to get to work._ 'Why didn't they just throw you overboard? They should have.'  _He hardly realises he's saying anything before someone tells him to shut up or he'll get beaten again. Sherlock doesn't say anything, but does draw blood from biting his lip._

The car that's usually parked outside their house, which is technically Mary's but John drives anyway, isn't there. John can't get a taxi at three in the morning on Wednesday. Sherlock probably could. Taxis seem to follow Sherlock wherever he goes and there's always one on hand when they need one. There's no point calling one - it'd take too long. So he ignores the wind and the rain and he just runs. There are a few people out and about - mostly drunk, admittedly - when he gets closer to the centre of London but he ignores them. They stare at him a bit. A man in a coat and a jumper and jeans running through London with a bit of paper in his hand at three in the morning. They'll never see him again - he isn't important. But John just has to get to Baker Street.

 _Sherlock's standing on top of St Bart's hospital. He didn't send any text indicating what could or would happen._ 'You shouldn't have come back.'  _He promises he won't this time. He picks up the phone and talks to John but he doesn't know what either of them are saying. John's looking up at him. No one is moving. Not even the wind whispers as he stands looking at John looking at him. His brain is short circuiting and he's dying in Serbia and the Czech Republic and Hungary and Russia and everywhere in between. Then he throws the phone behind him and he hears it clatter against the cement. He hears John speaking to him._ 'You shouldn't have survived at all.'  _He promises not to this time. In a second, he's falling forward and the ground flies up towards his face and_

Sherlock jolts awake. The room is dark and the blankets are tangled around him. It's cold. The flat's always cold. John always used to put the heating on.

_'You're really letting yourself go, aren't you?'_

"Shut up," Sherlock breathes. He closes his eyes again, just for a moment, but it's too loud and his mind won't slow down. So he struggles to get to his feet and pulls his dressing gown over his pyjamas and stumbles into the kitchen. It's dark in there too. It's always dark and cold and empty.

_'Freak - can't get anyone else to stand you.'_

Sherlock mumbles something incoherent and grits his teeth. John's always right. But he's trying not to go and get what's under the loose floorboard in his room. John wouldn't like that. But it can make it go away, just for a bit. He stops saying anything and everything stops hurting and he can let his mind go quiet for a while. But he doesn't. He wanders around the kitchen and fills the kettle and gets out two mugs. Then puts one back.

_'I'm not here anymore, idiot. Why would I be?'_

"Shut  _up_." He's getting louder. Closer. The repulsed smirk is audible. Sherlock's hands are shaking as he tries to pour the water into his mug. There's water on the counter and he stops trying.

_'Why can't you do anything right, genius?'_

Sherlock's on the floor, his hands pressed against his ears. He's shaking, he's bloody shaking and half-yelling, pleading, just wanting it to stop. He doesn't know when the tears started but they're practically streaming down his face. John is loud and thick in his mind and there are a million words at once and Sherlock just wants it to stop, just  _stop_.

There are hands on his arms, shaking him slightly.

It won't stop, oh God, it won't stop.

His hands are being prised away from his ears. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock looks up into a familiar face.

"Sherlock, it's okay. I'm not saying anything," John says quietly, meeting his panicked gaze.

Sherlock says nothing, just staring at John.

John presses his lips together, reassurance lingering in his eyes in spite of everything. He gives Sherlock a small nod, questioning.

Sherlock nods back.

It's okay.

Sherlock doesn't know when he started gripping John's hand, but John's touch is calming and reassuring and everything it should be. Sherlock's breathing is returning to normal.

"I told you to call me if it got this bad again," John reminded him gently.

Sherlock moistens his lips, looking down.

"Hey, hey - it's okay. Look, it doesn't matter now. But do, okay? Do call me or text me or whatever if this happens again."

"Alright."

"Okay." John offers him a smile Sherlock does not return.

Sherlock picks the note up off the floor and scans it. His brain focuses and he can do what only he can do, John at his side. But he doesn't say everything he's thinking. He's stopped doing that.

"Alright," he says quietly, meeting John's eye again. "Let's go."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I can hear you. When you're not here. You talk to me."
> 
> Auditory hallucinations. Caused by high levels of stress and anxiety, or drug use. Oh God. John said nothing, but squeezed Sherlock's hand slightly. He didn't know when he'd taken Sherlock's hand, but neither of them pulled away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aren't I doing well? Two chapters in two days? And I'm finishing chapter three now. So, have an update the same day as The Sign of Three (wasn't that episode heartbreaking?)
> 
> Oh, and thanks to my lovely new beta - doctorsherlockobsessed (on tumblr)/SmilesRawesome (on AO3)
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this!

Two weeks ago Mary saw an advert in the paper for a house just a little way outside of London. It was near a good school and it was bigger than their current house and they could afford it. And Mary's decisions were always good ones so John started to consider moving away. He could get a good job elsewhere - it shouldn't be too hard. He was nearly finished thinking it through when he thought about Sherlock and he was a little surprised with himself that it took that long. But then, Sherlock had been getting more distant. It didn't matter what either of them promised on some night of laughter and excitement. Sherlock had left the wedding early and slipped out of John's life. Ever so slowly, though, just the right speed so that John wouldn't really notice and, when he did, he'd accept it as a long time coming. Sherlock stopped being the most important thing in John's life a while ago. But Mary and John discussed it for two days before John raised the subject of 'What about Sherlock?' and Mary nodded and suggested John go over and tell him they were considering moving away. John thought that sounded like a good idea. They finished dinner and watched a film and went to bed. The next day was a Saturday and in the afternoon John went over to 221B to tell Sherlock that there was a good house a little way outside of London that was near a good school and bigger than their current house and they could afford it.

He let himself into 221B Baker Street. Mrs Hudson popped her head around her door and smiled at him and said it was nice to see him again - maybe he could pop around for a cuppa later? John smiled back and said that it sounded nice but he was just going to talk to Sherlock about something first. He trotted up the stairs and knocked on the door a little as he let himself in. The flat was cold and quiet and John thought that maybe Sherlock wasn't home. But then he noticed him. Sherlock was sitting on the floor leaning against his armchair and his eyes were closed and his head was against his hand. John took a step into the room, gazing at Sherlock, and that was when he noticed.

Sherlock was definitely asleep. But he was shifting a little and mumbling something John couldn't quite make out and his breathing was uneven and faster than it should be. He was wincing and John was vaguely aware that his face looked a little… damp. And this was most certainly not how John expected to find Sherlock. He thought that maybe he might find him playing the violin or with a client, but most certainly not like this. He stepped over to Sherlock, cautiously, carefully, just watching him. He flinched a little as John knelt beside him. Not good. But John knew what was going on and he placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and breathed his name. He shook him a little harder and said his name again, louder this time, confused worry splashed across his face. Sherlock's eyes flicked open and he sat up and half-yelled

"I'm sorry."

Then reality fell around him. He glanced at John, wiped his face on the back of his hand, ruffled his hair and jumped to his feet. His usual expression of passive boredom was fixed in place as he wandered over to the window. But John remained where he was on the floor, gazing at Sherlock and biting his lip.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock didn't look at him. "Of course. I'm perfectly alright."

John's expression didn't clear. He was not letting this slide, he was not going to pretend it was all okay. Something had happened, that was obvious, something had happened while Sherlock was away or just after that and he'd changed. Something had gone wrong in his mind. He kept on saying 'I don't know' and he was never as excited for cases as he used to be and he seemed to get lost in his own mind palace sometimes. He was definitely more on edge. He seemed more… human. Like he used humour more, but it was humour that made him a complete arsehole and John didn't know how to feel about it, but they don't let you become a doctor without knowing something about psychology and John couldn't help thinking that it might just be a cover for something deeper. More painful. Like now. Sherlock could be a million things right now but he was most certainly not 'perfectly alright'. And John knew it.

He sighed, moistening his lips. "You're not," he said. "You were asleep on the floor. Sherlock, I'm pretty sure you were having a night-"

"I said 'I'm perfectly alright'," Sherlock insisted. He still wasn't looking at John.

"Sherlock, please," John began. Everything else seemed to have disappeared and there was only Sherlock. There was only one thought in John's mind and it was that Sherlock was not okay.

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes. "John, I'm fine. There is nothing wrong with me."

"Last time you said that there was."

Sherlock scowled. "That was a long time ago."

"Yes, it was. But nothing's improved since then."

"That has nothing to do with  _this_."

"Maybe not, but  _this_ is  _something_." John's voice was getting louder without him realising and Sherlock still had his back turned.

"It's not important." Sherlock bit his lip. His breathing had gotten faster and heavier but that was  _not_ going to go further. Breathing patterns are very telling and Sherlock knew how to regulate his own. So he did.

"You're not sleeping, are you?"

Sherlock finally turned to face him, calm mask in place, and brushed off the question like it was nothing. "That's hardly of relevance. You didn't come over to ask me about my sleeping pattern." He scanned John, and John was sure he saw his mask slip, just a little, just for a fraction of a second. "What's happening?"

John sighed. It was useless trying to ask Sherlock about this now. He wouldn't let this conversation go any further, regardless of how John responded. But he wouldn't drop it entirely and John decided that the sooner he told Sherlock why he'd come the sooner he could get back onto the topic of just why he was staying.

"We've found a house," he said simply.

"A house outside of London," Sherlock filled in, eyes fixed on John's face. "A house that's near a good school and that's bigger than your current house and that you can afford."

"Yes."

"So why are you telling me?" Sherlock turned back to the window.

"Just wanted to see what you thought."

"My opinion on this won't affect whether you buy the house or not in the slightest."

"For God's sake, Sherlock. You're my best friend. Your opinion does matter."

"It had no hold over your marriage."

John sighed heavily. He could not lose his temper now. He was not having an argument now. "I know you think it's dull and ordinary and predictable, but I love her. I wanted to marry her, she wanted to marry me. But this isn't about that."

"No, it's about you moving away from London."

"What do you think?"

"You know what I think." Sherlock's tone had become tighter.

John could feel himself getting annoyed. He stood up, shaking his head. "You think it's dull and ordinary and predictable."

"No." Sherlock span around. His lips were drawn into something like a snarl as he glared at John. "No, I think it's like I'm losing you."

"What?"

Sherlock shook his head, eyes fixed on John's face. "I think it's like I'm losing you. I had this remote hope that when I came back things could go back to the way they were."

John looked at him with utter disgust. "You selfish bastard. You were away for  _two years_ and you think you can waltz back in and things can go back to the way they were? I moved on, Sherlock!"

"I know you did - I witnessed it, remember?" Sherlock's mask was slipping, real emotion was leaking into his voice but John didn't pay attention.

"How could you possibly think that things could be the same?" John was yelling now, but he wasn't stopping himself. "What - did you just think I had no life at all without you?"

"Yes!"

John shook his head. "Fuck you."

"It stood to reason." Sherlock rubbed the back of his neck and bit his lip. His eyes were turned away. "I mean, you had no life before me - you were depressed, eating disorder. For God's sake you had suicidal tendencies, John."

"I know, I know." John's hands were clenched into fists at his side. "You helped me get my life back together. But I know how to carry on, Sherlock, it wasn't all going to come crashing down without you."

"I realise that now."

"I don't need you, Sherlock. I thought you were meant to be a genius - how the hell could you think that?"

"I don't know. I still need you, but-"

"What?" John was glaring at him.

"But obviously you don't need me anymore." Sherlock ignored John's question. "You moved on, I know, I  _know_. You... you got  _married_." And Sherlock's voice broke on the word but John chose not to notice.

"So? What do you care? You don't care about anything - it's a disadvantage, you say."

"Yes!" Sherlock looked back at him. He wasn't even trying to hide anymore. "Yes, thank you for proving it!"

For the first time, John was vaguely taken aback. "What?"

"I didn't care because I know what caring does. It will  _always_ hurt. So I built this wall and I didn't let myself care about anything but then you came along and broke it down. You… you said 'amazing' and you became the only exception to every rule, always." He was gazing at John with a look almost of desperation. "But then I had to go and you went and got married and I lost you."

"Why the hell would you have lost me just because I got married?" John wasn't entirely sure of everything that was happening. Everything Sherlock was saying. Something really wasn't right in that head of his. "That's just… idiotic. We can still solve crimes and stuff, even if I can't see you as often as I used to. The only way my getting married would cause you to lose me is if  _you_ had wanted to marry me, which, of course, is ridicu…" John met Sherlock's eye. And Sherlock looked away, and fell back onto the sofa.

"Oh my God," John breathed.

Sherlock brought his hands up to his face his fingers drawn together under his nose. His eyes were fixed on the coffee table. "I'm sorry."

"Oh my God." John ran his fingers through his hair, hardly even understanding what had just happened.

Sherlock buried his face in his hands. "I'm sorry."

"Oh my God. Why didn't you say something? I can't… Oh my  _God_."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm  _sorry_."

"I… I need some air." And John made for the door and left without another glance at Sherlock.

_'What the hell was that? What the hell have you done?'_

"Shut up," Sherlock mumbled.

_'Why did you let that slip? Idiot.'_

"Shut  _up_."

_'You've ruined everything now.'_

"Shut up,  _please_." He slipped down onto the floor, crumpled, ruined. And he wouldn't stop talking, yelling.

"PLEASE!"

John was on the first step. Sherlock was saying something. His stubbornness almost made him carry on. But that wasn't a voice John had ever heard before. So he turned back and went back to the door.

"JOHN, PLEASE, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!"

That was wrong. That was entirely wrong. What the hell was happening to Sherlock? John pushed the door open. Sherlock was on the floor, curled up, hands over his ears and eyes closed, but tears still escaped and coursed down his pale cheeks. This was just… wrong. Sherlock was falling apart at the seams and John hadn't even noticed. He walked across the room to Sherlock, calmly, collected. He knelt down in front of him. Sherlock was just mumbling now, almost whimpering.

" _Please, please, please_."

"Sherlock," John said quietly. No response. "Sherlock." Louder this time. Sherlock curled up a little tighter. John reached out and placed his hands over Sherlock's. He could feel him shaking. He persisted, gently prised his hands away from his ears. "Sherlock, look at me. It's okay, I'm here. Look at me."

Sherlock's head flicked up. His eyes were red and his skin was paler than usual.

"Shh… I'm not saying anything." He didn't know why that might help. But he said it all the same.

Sherlock's eyes flicked over his face. He was still shaking.

John pressed his lips together and gave Sherlock a small nod, questioning.

Sherlock nodded.

And before John had realised just what had happened, Sherlock was in his arms, his face buried in John's shoulder, his arms around his neck. John slipped his arms around Sherlock's waist and rubbed his back gently. He said nothing. Sometimes silence was the best comfort.

* * *

John made tea. He placed it on the coffee table, and sat beside Sherlock on the sofa. Sherlock stared at his mug in silence.

"Do you want to tell me what that was about?" John asked quietly, his eyes on Sherlock's face.

Sherlock said nothing.

John sighed. "Please, Sherlock. I want to help you."

"I'm okay."

"You weren't."

"No."

"So, what was that?" John was gazing at Sherlock, his eyes flickering with a spark of… desperation.

Sherlock swallowed thickly. His face was splashed with pain and tears, his eyes hollow. "I can hear you. When you're not here. You talk to me."

Auditory hallucinations. Caused by high levels of stress and anxiety, or drug use. Oh God. John said nothing, but squeezed Sherlock's hand slightly. He didn't know when he'd taken Sherlock's hand, but neither of them pulled away.

"You say things to me. It's like you're really there."

John nodded. "What do I say?"

"Lots of things."

"Like what?"

Sherlock looked down and bit his lip.

"Sherlock," John sighed. "Please."

"Smart arse." Sherlock's words were barely audible, just shaped breath. "Show off. Jealous?" He moistened his lips. "Idiot. What the hell was that? What are you doing? Freak, fake, I hate you, psychopath, you shouldn't have come back, you shouldn't…" He tailed off, closing his eyes.

John squeezed his hand.

"You shouldn't have survived at all."

John let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. God, this was worse than he'd thought. "You know I'd never say those things really, right?" John assured him quietly. "You know I'd never even  _think_ those things. I could not be more glad that you're alive and back and, God, Sherlock, I… You heard me. I wanted you not to be dead and I am so glad I got what I wished for. Really."

Sherlock remained silent.

John's phone beeped. Message. He pulled it out of his pocket and checked it.

"You have to go," Sherlock said quietly.

John nodded. "I'm sorry. Look, we'll get you sorted out, okay? You're going to be okay."

Sherlock nodded.

"Okay. Sherlock, please, call me if you get like this again. Or text me. Just contact me and I can assure you that I'm not saying anything and that it's all fine. Okay? Sherlock, promise me you'll do that."

Sherlock sighed. "Alright." He didn't look up.

John rose and released Sherlock's hand. "I'll come see you again tomorrow, okay? Drink your tea. Drink mine too, if you want. You'll be okay."

Sherlock said nothing.

John left 221B and went home to his wife.

Sherlock tried to go to sleep that night, but he could only hear John yelling at him. Every time he closed his eyes he was falling. At nine the following morning, he collapsed from exhaustion and malnutrition. Mrs Hudson found him, and managed to get him to eat something. He was sick that evening, and proceed to inject his blood with poison, all the while hearing John screaming at him to not do it.

John didn't come and see him that day.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morphine is an opiate - a medicinal drug derived from opium, used to treat severe pain. Slows down bodily functions, causes relaxation and is a narcotic. Eradicates physical and psychological pain. Highly addictive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this one took a couple of days.  
> And it's a bit shorter than the others.  
> I just needed to fit what happens here into the story, but I found it rather tricky - it's by no means the best chapter, I hope you'll forgive that.  
> I will try as hard as I can to get chapter four up tomorrow. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter. Or at least look forward to the next one.

Sherlock left the wedding early.  Mrs Hudson’s words echoed in his ears as he did so, of course.  He had promised that he’d be there for John and Mary - he’d gone to great lengths to make sure neither of them were anything less than happy on their… special day, and ignored any personal pain it caused him.  It was worth it for John’s smile.  And he meant to be there, for the three of them.  But it became increasingly harder to look at them.  Think of them.  Think of John at all, unless it was pre-fall.  And even then, it hurt.  The hurting never stopped anymore.  John had proved his theory right - caring and loving bring pain, and the pain is never worth the happiness the same caring provided.  And no matter how hard he tried not to, no matter how many cases and clients he surrounded himself with, he kept thinking about the wedding.  About his speech.  About how he played for their first dance and John spent the entirety of it with his eyes on Mary.  About how he mouthed Mary’s vows along with her, unseen, unnoticed, all the while gazing at what could have been. 

Sherlock left the wedding early.  He immediately went back to Baker Street, let himself into his dark, cold flat, went to his bedroom and injected morphine into his blood.  He passed out on the floor of his bedroom, John’s voice ringing in his ears.  He woke up shivering, tears streaming down his face.  No one will ever know that it had ever happened.  Sherlock, however, has lost count of the number of times it has. 

He was sitting in a rainy street in Germany, about three months after he’d left London, when he relapsed.  He found out about a dealer and bought some cocaine, for when he needed to speed his brain up, and morphine, for when he needed to just slow down.  And he’d told himself it was a one-time thing as he sat in the rainy back-street, alone, feeling utterly lost, and stuck the needle into his arm, all the while hearing John screaming at him.  Then his mind began to sink and grow cloudy.  And John was muffled, and then fell silent.  After that, he told himself never again.  The sound of John’s voice ringing in his ears as he injected himself was enough of a deterrent.  But John always got louder and things always got harder and sometimes whatever they’d done to him didn’t stop hurting for days so he used it as an excuse.  But when he came back… then he was clean.  He’d cleared up his act, thrown away everything and promised he wouldn’t do that to John.  But John ignored him and Sherlock heard his voice again.  And his blood and brain were screaming for the endorphins and the relative peace.  So Sherlock went out and bought his fix. 

Every time he assembled the needle, he’d go over what he knew - it would almost make John’s protests quieter.  Morphine is an opiate - a medicinal drug derived from opium, used to treat severe pain.  Slows down bodily functions, causes relaxation and is a narcotic.  Eradicates physical and psychological pain.  Highly addictive.  At one time, he hated morphine.  Cocaine allowed his brain to speed up - it gave him interest in life when there was none.  But there was plenty of work now.  There was plenty of interest in what used to entice him - he only had to answer the door.  No, what Sherlock needed was a painkiller.  And he found a man whose sister had cancer and access to morphine and abused that find.  And when Sherlock had reminded himself of all this and filled the needle with the amount of morphine that wouldn’t stop him from breathing, he injected himself.  And the drug warmed his blood and made him slow down, and relax, and grow tired.  Any small physical pain disappeared.  And the ache in his heart and his head dulled.  And the next day he’d go back to his room, or sometimes John’s, and inject himself again. 

It was some two weeks after the wedding when Sherlock began walking to his dealer’s house again.  It was warm and damp and growing dark.  His blood and brain were begging for the endorphins as he walked.  He was so lost in his own foggy mind that he almost didn’t notice the woman in the phone-box, the door of which stood slightly ajar.  Almost didn’t notice.  But not quite.  He wasn’t slowed by any drug at the time and he caught a glance of her blonde hair and heard her voice and he listened to what was being said. 

Of course, Sherlock wasn’t entirely surprised when he noticed Mary was pregnant.  Her reaction, however, was rather unexpected.  She looked scared.  But it wasn’t the sort of scared-excited feeling one might expect from a pregnant woman.  No, Mary Watson was utterly terrified.  She feigned a smile, tried to look happy, and eventually brushed past it.  But her face, the look in her eye, struck Sherlock and stayed with him.  Even in his ruined state.  She was a part of John’s happiness, and that must not be compromised.  Anything suggesting it might be must be remembered.  So Sherlock sat and thought and tried to join the dots in those too sharp moments when he was sober, as his mind tried to stay together.  And, as he walked past the phone-box, he slowed to a stop, everything he’d been considering about Mary Watson flashing before him again. 

“Yes, I’m in a phone-box,” she was saying.  She shifted a little and bit her lip.  “No…  No - Cam, I’ve told you - I never ring from the house phone… You can track every number I’ve called you from - it’s never one he could see…  Shopping…  It’s Friday, they’ll be busy.  Look, there is a reason I called… Cam… Cam, will you listen to me?  No…  No, Cam - I’m pregnant.” 

It had started raining.  There were a few other people walking past, never acknowledging the woman in the phone-box or the man gazing at her.

Morphine had dropped from Sherlock’s mind.  There was only the possible negative effect to John’s happiness.  Nothing else mattered. 

The woman ran her fingers through her hair and winced a little.  “I don’t know… I don’t know, okay?  It just sort of happened…  Of course not, why would I?  Well, I know - look, it doesn’t matter.  The thing is, what do we do?  No, I can’t…  He’s excited, he’ll ask why…  That won’t work… You know that…  I’ll just have to have it…  I know… I know, I’m sorry…  What can I say?  It was an accident…  Cam, please, don’t…  Cam, I’m…  Yes…  Yes, okay…  No…  I’m sorry…  I’ll think about-” 

She stopped, and her shoulders drooped.  She hung up the phone, and stepped out into the hazy drizzle that was covering the road.  She turned without noticing the tall man in a long coat.  A man with hollow eyes and pale cheeks, gazing at her. 

Sherlock followed as she began to walk away. 

After two minutes, she turned into an alley - shortcut to the Morrisons where she and John shopped - when Sherlock caught up with her. 

Before Mary could do anything, she found herself forced against the wall by a tall man in a long coat with pale skin and dark curls.  She didn’t struggle.

She just looked up into the face of Sherlock Holmes. 

“You will not hurt him,” Sherlock hissed, his face an inch away from hers. 

“What are you talking about?” she asked, moistening her lips. 

“I don’t know who ‘Cam’ is, but I will find out.  But whoever they are, they’re not important right now.  You will not hurt John Watson.” 

“Why would I?”

“There are twenty-seven individual reasons as to why you might.  That’s not important.  The important thing is that you do not hurt him.  Be it physically, emotionally, psychologically - you will not hurt John Watson in any way.  Is that understood?” 

A smirk played about the corners of Mary’s lips.  “Or what?” 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her, and tilted his head to one side slightly.  “I think I’ll leave that to your imagination.” 

“You can barely cope with surviving yourself.  How are you going to even get into a situation where you could do something to me?” 

“I think this particular situation was quite easily attainable.” 

“All I have to do is scream and you’ll be off me in a second.  Whether it’s of your own choice or whether someone tears you off me and handcuffs you would remain to be seen.”  The smirk was growing.  “I could call the police - call Lestrade - and get you done for those drugs any time I liked, you know.  You don’t have any hold over this situation.” 

Sherlock’s eyes were flickering, his jaw set.  “I don’t care.  I don’t care what you or anyone else does to me.  But you do not want to test me.  Because I will not worry about consequences if any harm should come to John.”  

“Suppose I were planning on doing something to him - not saying I am, mind, just supposing I were.  What would you suggest I do?” 

“Not do it to him,” Sherlock replied simply.  His eyes were blazing.  “Whatever it is, if it needs to be done, do it to me.  I don’t care.  He will not be hurt, by you or by anyone.” 

Mary gazed at him for another second and swallowed. 

“You know, when I said I thought you deserved John Watson, I meant it.  You had the power to make him happy - a power I rarely possessed.  A power I no longer possess.  You make his eyes shine and he gets that wonderful smile on his face.  I believed you would love him and take care for him.  Obviously, I revoke what I said, entirely.  But there’s no need for anyone to know.  Keep him happy.  Take care of him.  Love him.  Or at least pretend to.  Because I meant every word I said in my best man speech - he is the most incredible, amazing, fantastic man anyone could ever meet.  He needs to stay okay.  You understand?” 

Mary shifted a little

Sherlock’s grip tightened. 

“Okay, yes.  I understand.” 

“You won’t hurt him?” 

“No.” 

“Promise.”

Mary coughed a little. 

“I told you to promise.” 

“I promise.” 

Sherlock released her.  Reality fell about them with the rain.  No one else was around them, no one seemed to have witnessed this encounter.

They glanced at each other and went their separate ways. 

Mary went to the shops and then went home.  She apologised to John for spending so long, but it was Friday, so the shops were rather busy.  John smiled and told her that he loved her.   She smiled and said it back.  John didn’t even consider doubting the sentiment.  Mary’s pregnancy continued and John loved her and believed she loved him and cared for her and she cared for him.  They visited Sherlock every once in a while, and both Sherlock and Mary upheld their old attitudes towards each other - Sherlock acted as if Mary was the most wonderful thing to happen to John, and Mary acted as though she respected Sherlock as John’s best friend.  John didn’t notice Sherlock’s hollow cheeks or pained eyes or shattered wrists.  John and Mary never stayed long, anyway.  Their visits became less frequent.  And Mary didn’t hurt John in any way. 

Sherlock went to his dealer, and then went home.  He filled his blood with the drug and relaxed into it, letting it consume and slow his mind, letting John’s voice dull, letting the pain slowly seep out of him until nothing remained but dark, peaceful fog.  He kept up appearances when John and Mary visited.  He solved the odd case.  He kept an eye on Mary.  His nightmares continued and every so often he’d try to get back together, try to fix himself, but he kept seeing John’s empty chair and hearing the echo of words he never said.

And he’d collapse back into the clutches of his addiction to the hazy world where things didn’t hurt.  


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Right. Don’t you think this might be dangerous?” 
> 
> “Of course it will be. But, if you didn’t find danger intriguing, you wouldn’t be here.” 
> 
> “I wouldn’t, would I?” John sighs and shakes his head at himself. 
> 
> Sherlock knows John is trying his best not to show that he’s afraid. And he knows that if John finds out what Sherlock himself is feeling, it’d make everything just fall apart. So Sherlock keeps his shoulders back and feigns confidence as the pair walk up to the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I present to you... CHAPTER FOUR!!!!
> 
> I meant to say in the notes on the last chapter but I posted it at three in the morning and I forgot - I remembered after publishing chapter one that I'd said this bit of the story is set in January, but Mary and John got married in May, and I wanted Mary to be no more than five months pregnant, so I had an issue. So I've changed January in chapter one to October. Please forgive. 
> 
> Oh, and I don't think Mary's like this. I love Mary. If Mary turns out to be anything similar to how I've portrayed her, I'll cry. 
> 
> I hope you like Chapter Four, my lovelies nwn

When Sherlock stands up, his eyes turned away from John, he’s surprised his legs can hold him.  His right hand is trembling slightly. 

For the first time, it catches John’s eye. But he’s too consumed with worry for his wife and his baby and his mind is still slightly hazy from sleep and he’s shivering and he can’t quite process everything that’s happening.  So he says nothing. 

Sherlock manages to pull on his coat and tie his scarf around his neck.  As he makes for the door, John lingers.

“Sherlock.  Where are we going?” 

Sherlock moistens his lips and turns back to face him.  “Magnussen’s house.” 

“The blackmailer you told me about?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s where they’ll be.” 

“They’ll?”  John’s eyes are wide, his brow creasing with worry and panic.  “What the hell is going on?” 

Sherlock swallows thickly.  “I don’t know.  Not entirely.  I can’t even be sure that they’ll be there, but it’s the most likely place I can think of at the moment.  Especially considering they’ll be expecting us.”

“Both of us?” 

“Obviously.  Mary left that note for me to work out.  She knew you’d come here, regardless of everything.” 

“Everything?” John gazes at Sherlock, eyebrows raised slightly. 

Sherlock looks down.  “I’ll explain later.” 

“I’ll hold you to that.” 

“Fine.” 

“Anyway - have you?” 

“Have I what?”

“Worked it out.” 

Sherlock glances at the note in his hand again, at Mary’s curly handwriting, the J of John’s name looping under the rest of it and the finely written content.  Her hand wasn’t shaking at all.  She knew exactly what she was doing when she wrote it.  She waited to write it until just before she left - the ink’s ever so slightly smudged from when she folded it, and on John’s name from when she left it under her pillow.  _Your last vow._ John’s last vow?  Sherlock’s last vow?  Who’s?  Sherlock’s head gets heavier and his chest gets tighter. 

“No.  No, I haven’t,” he sighs.  “I don’t know.  I’m sorry, I…  I don’t know what we can do, whether they’ll be there.  I’m guessing, John, I’m just guessing.”  He shakes his hand out a little and he takes a few deep breaths. 

“Sherlock?”  John licks his lips gazes at the ruined detective. 

“It’s fine,” Sherlock replies.  “John, it’ll be fine.  But I…  I don’t know how to explain.  I can’t…  I don’t know, John.”  Sherlock’s eyes are closed.

“It’s okay.  Sherlock, look at me.” 

Sherlock looks up and meets John’s eyes. 

“It’s going to be okay.  I trust you. 

Sherlock nods.  They remain quiet for a few moments, the silent exchange more reassuring than any words could be. 

They turn and leave the flat. 

Sherlock wonders how John could trust him now, in spite of everything. 

John wants to just stop the world for long enough so that he can fix everything that’s breaking, even a little bit, in Sherlock’s mind.  So he can repair all the damage he will always blame himself for. 

Neither of them say anything. 

* * *

It’s not hard to find a taxi with Sherlock around.  Sherlock gives the cabbie the address and they spend the remainder of the journey in silence.  John keeps biting his lips and gazing out of the window as London slips past them.  Sherlock stares into the empty space before him and clenches his trembling hand.  The driver makes no comment as they make their way through the sleepless city. 

Magnussen’s house is not dark.  There are two cars on the drive - the large, black Rolls Royce Magnussen bought himself simply because he could and the small, everyday car that tells John that Mary is definitely here.  John pays the cabbie and he and Sherlock get out of the car.  The night air ruffles Sherlock’s hair and sends a shiver through John.  Sherlock begins to walk towards the front door. 

“What, we’re just going to ring the doorbell?”

“Like I said - they’re expecting us.”

“Right.  Don’t you think this might be dangerous?” 

“Of course it will be.  But, if you didn’t find danger intriguing, you wouldn’t be here.” 

“I wouldn’t, would I?”  John sighs and shakes his head at himself. 

Sherlock knows John is trying his best not to show that he’s afraid.  And he knows that if John finds out what Sherlock himself is feeling, it’d make everything just fall apart.  So Sherlock keeps his shoulders back and feigns confidence as the pair walk up to the door. 

“Wait.”  John catches Sherlock’s elbow just before they reach it. 

Sherlock gazes at him. 

“Why would she be here?  Why would she do this?” 

Sherlock sighs.  “John, there are many things that I don’t know.  There’s only one thing I’m sure of.  She’s a liar.”

And the look on John’s face as Sherlock says it feels like a knife in his stomach.

Before they can say anything more, the front door opens. 

“Mr Holmes, Dr Watson.  Thank you for coming at such an inconvenient time.  Let me take your coats.” 

John hesitates as Sherlock enters.  Everyone seems to know what they’re doing except him. 

Sherlock gazes at the butler and tries to read what he can as he tries to keep himself together.  He’s Sherlock Holmes, he can tell anything about anyone.  But he hardly knows what it is to be Sherlock Holmes anymore.  The Sherlock Holmes he used to be, the Sherlock Holmes that didn’t hurt all the time, is long gone.  He takes what he can from the man and doesn’t let him take his coat. 

John enters and stands beside him. 

“I’m cold,” he says simply, staring at the butler.  “I’d prefer to keep it on.” 

The butler nods and closes the door behind him. 

Both doctor and detective scan the room they’ve entered.  It’s warm and bright and comfortable.  The artwork is expensive and understated.  It reminds Sherlock of his grandparents’ house.  Mycroft lives there now.  But it will always be his grandparents’ house.  He supposes that the connection could have been intentional.  But why Magnussen would want to put that thought in Sherlock’s mind… he doesn’t try to work it out. 

“Are you sure?”  The voice is smooth and there’s a slight smile on the man’s lips as he says it.  “I like to keep the house warm.  You know we’ve been expecting you.  Why would we do anything to you as you step in the door?” 

Sherlock and John turn their heads to see Charles Augustus Magnussen walking down the stairs on one side of the room.  He’s always disarmingly calm and confident.  He always knows what he’s doing.  Sherlock doesn’t let his fear show. 

“Cat got your tongue?” he chuckles as he reaches them.  He looks from one to the other with his eyes sparkling.  John’s stomach turns.  “Dr Watson, your wife is waiting for you through that door.” 

John stares at the door as Magnussen points to it. 

“You can go now.  Thompson, take Dr Watson’s coat.”           

John doesn’t move as the butler takes his jacket.  Sherlock watches him for a sign of a problem, but none occurs.  Perhaps Magnussen had a point. 

John does not leave, but Magnussen ignores him. 

“Mr Holmes, it’s a pleasure to see you in person at last.  I’d like to have a word with you upstairs.”

“I suppose you mean without John?”  Sherlock’s voice is stronger than he feels.

“Obviously.  I suppose Dr Watson would prefer to be with his wife.” 

John is still just staring at the door.  He licks his lips. 

“You are allowed to go, Doctor.” 

Sherlock gives him a small nod. 

John bites his lip, and walks to the door where Mary should be. 

Sherlock watches him leave. 

Just before he goes through the door, he looks back, and glances at his coat, nervousness creasing his brow.  But he leaves without saying anything else. 

“Now, Mr Holmes,” Magnussen begins, still smiling.  “Come along.  I need to show you something I think you’ll find quite interesting.”

Sherlock glances at the coatrack as Magnussen turns and begins to walk towards the stairs.  Then he realises.  John’s gun is in his coat pocket, only just visible. 

Sherlock begins to follow Magnussen. 

As he passes the coat rack, he slips his hand into John’s pocket and retrieves the gun.  John keeps it in the back of his trousers, under his shirt.  So, without really thinking, Sherlock tucks it there.  He shivers as the gun grazes across his skin.    

Magnussen turns. 

“Thomson, take Mr Holmes’s coat for him, will you?  It is rather warm upstairs.” 

Sherlock does not move as the butler comes up behind him.  His eyes are fixed on Magnussen’s face, trying to work out his plans, his ideas.  The butler’s hands are on his shoulders and he feels his coat slipping off him. 

And his mind is so cloudy and confused that he hardly registers the butler’s hand straying. 

And he’s so used to the feeling that he doesn’t pay attention to the slight sting in his neck. 

Magnussen smirks.  “You have developed quite an immunity, haven’t you?” he comments lightly.  “It should be immediately effective.  But give it a second.”

Then Sherlock registers the slowing of his mind and he turns.  Thomson stands behind him, his coat in one hand, an empty syringe in the other. 

“You keep making the doses bigger to make sure it’s still effective.  Don’t even worry that too much will stop you breathing.” 

His voice is smooth and the room is warm.  Sherlock staggers and drops to his knees. 

John. 

Where’s John? 

“Don’t worry about him, you’ll find out all about what’s happening when you wake up.” 

_You told me to leave.  You’ve put me in danger._

Sherlock doesn’t register saying anything as he falls forward onto his hands. 

“That’s right, Mr Holmes.  Everything will be quiet for a while.  But you’re in for a treat when you wake up.”

_And now you’re in danger too.  Why do you do this?  Why do you keep destroying things?_

Sherlock falls onto the tiled floor and the world goes black. 

_Why did you come back?  You shouldn’t have come back._

* * *

“I’m going to need you to take these.” 

Mary is smiling at him.  She has a glass of water in one hand and two small, white pills in the other.  John’s eyes are fixed on her face. 

“Nothing to worry about.  Only some small narcotics.” 

“Why?” John asks.  His voice cracks slightly and everything is cold with fear and his mind is screaming at him for leaving Sherlock with Magnussen. 

“We need to go somewhere.  Can’t risk you remembering how we got there.  You might be able to get back.” 

“You’re not planning on letting me leave?” 

“Well, you can’t stay here forever.  But you’ll need assistance getting out.” 

John bites his lip. 

“Oh, John, don’t.  It did get hard.  Really.  I hate this, I really do.  But I have to do what I have to do.  Now, take these.” 

“No.” 

John isn’t thinking properly.  There’s no way he could be. 

Mary’s still smiling. 

“Please?”

“No.” 

Mary - his wife - sighs.  “Never mind.  We’ll have to do this another way.”  She places the glass and the pills on a small table nearby. 

“What do you mean?” 

She’s still smiling.  And the curve of her soft, kind lips makes John’s stomach churn.

“Flynn?” Mary calls, ignoring John. 

“Flynn?  Mary, please, what’s happening?” 

Mary ignores her husband.  A large, muscular man enters through a side door, grinning.  The grin is almost as terrifying to John as his wife’s soft smile. 

“Flynn, he won’t take the pills.  Would you…  Well, initiate Plan B?”

He smirks as he walks over to John. 

John is a soldier.  He will not run.  Even when every sense is telling him to get Sherlock and get out.  He will find out everything that’s happening and he will _not_ run.

And he knows what’s going to happen but flinching is no use because he’s being forced to the ground and he can taste blood and it’s at least a minute before John’s body gives up on consciousness. 

When he wakes up, everything hurting, Mary is smiling at him. 

When Sherlock wakes up, his head spinning, he can see Mary smiling at John.  He can see John’s damaged face and the bruises forming on John’s neck and wrists.  He can see exactly how John’s wrists are bound together and his legs are bound to the chair.  He can see what Mary’s got in her pocket and what she’s going to do.

And he can see that he’s in a room that’s too far away from where they are as he gazes at the screen set up so he can watch as the events play out, Magnussen at his side.  And he knows that the most entertaining part for the twisted, disgusting man is that Sherlock knows how the scene ends. 

And, for the first time, Sherlock can’t see a way to change it.

He’s going to watch John Watson die.  


End file.
